


A Tolerance for Pain

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Surrender 'Verse [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Breathplay, Canon Era, Consent Issues, Dry Fucking, Impact Play, M/M, Manhandling, Pain Kink, Porn with Feelings, Rank Disparity, Rough Oral Sex, Safewords, Spanking, dom/sub themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 13:56:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12191259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Hamilton is a clever brat, and Washington gives him exactly what he craves.





	A Tolerance for Pain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aidennestorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/gifts).



He will never tire of Alexander's mouth.

Washington knew it from the start, the very first time his boy knelt between his legs and swallowed him down: he could not give this up. It's too perfect, and too much, and there are days he doesn't know how his chest can contain such an overabundance of feeling.

The physical pleasure is only a fragment of this thing between them. Even before he dared to hope for this, Washington knew any entanglement with Alexander Hamilton would be confusing. Complicated. _More_. 

But the rest… The protectiveness that clenches in his chest whenever he looks at Alexander. The covetous desire to keep him close even when they are surrounded by soldiers and Washington cannot _touch_. The pulse of something like longing when he tries to imagine what will come after this war.

These are all truths he refuses to consider too closely. He certainly can't put them into words and lay them at Hamilton's feet.

But Washington does not need words to express himself in moments like this. Deeper understanding twines through and around them as his fist tightens in Alexander's hair, forcing him to swallow the entire length of Washington's cock.

Brown eyes blink up at him, enormous and expressive. He is holding Hamilton perfectly still, filling him completely. Thrilling at the intimate nudge of Alexander's nose against his belly, the soft spasms of the boy's practiced throat working around him.

Of all the things he and Hamilton do together, this is Washington's favorite. No matter how many devious schemes they conjure to bring each other pleasure, he will always return to this.

Nothing—truly nothing—can compare to the way he feels forcing Hamilton to his knees.

Washington sits motionless for a time, revels in the perfect stillness. He meets his boy's eyes, keeping his own expression cool even as he enjoys the gorgeous sight of kiss-darkened lips stretched around the base of his cock. The first shimmer of unshed tears as Hamilton struggles to remain motionless. The warm weight of hands braced atop Washington's thighs. The tremble that runs through Hamilton as want of air tests his self-restraint.

Washington draws an unsteady breath. His boy is alarmingly perfect like this. There is something almost worshipful in this wordless intimacy—something greedy and hungry in Alexander's eyes—an eagerness that matches Washington's own.

He groans as he drags Hamilton back. Not entirely off his cock, but far enough to allow air into desperate lungs. Hamilton's eyes flutter shut, and he inhales hard through his nose. Not choking. Not yet. Ready and in control despite the way he is being used. 

Washington has no intention of allowing that control to last.

He will permit it for a time. He is a patient man, and he doesn't need to rush in order to take Hamilton apart. He knows his boy's limits. And much as Hamilton may adore being taken hard and fast to the very edges of endurance, sometimes Washington prefers a different path. Slower, smoother, an illusion of gentleness.

It's this he is in the mood for tonight, and he reels Alexander in once more. Pulls him all the way down, enjoying the sight of Hamilton's dark hair wrapped between his fingers, the raw sense of power that comes of watching those lips stretch wide around him.

Washington's other hand rests atop his desk, careless of the correspondence he is supposed to be reviewing. The candles are burning low—it's well past late enough that headquarters is empty, though not yet late enough for Washington to take his boy to bed. They have work yet to do. There is always more work. Washington finds he doesn't mind it so terribly when it means Hamilton is always close at hand.

But they also have time enough for this. An intimate interlude. A chance to release some small fragment of the energy straining between them. Washington is only just back from a scouting foray dangerously close to enemy territory, and they are both running hot.

It's been days since he last had his Alexander.

Hamilton settles to almost total stillness as Washington's cock nestles down his throat once more. No hint of discomfort. Nothing but docile obedience and an expression of uncomplicated bliss.

"Is this what you want, Alexander?" Washington takes his hand off the desk and traces his fingers over Hamilton's cheek. "Is this what you need?"

Hamilton's eyes close and he does his best to nuzzle into the touch, despite the cock filling his throat. He hums in agreement—or at least he tries to—and though he makes no sound, the fluttering of muscle sends such pleasant sensations along Washington's flesh that it's all he can do _not_ to thrust his hips up from the chair.

As it is, he can't quite stifle the groan of pleasure. Hamilton's eyes reopen at the sound, and the look shared between general and aide could burn this farmhouse down around them.

"Look at you." Washington's exploring touch slips higher, tracing the almost feminine arch of Hamilton's eyebrows. Slides lower to caress the shell of his ear, the line of his jaw.

Washington loves how patiently Hamilton kneels—he's come a long way from the restless boy Washington took into his bed only ten months ago.

"You are beautiful like this," he murmurs, and his breath hitches at the way his honest praise makes the tight throat work around his cock. "My Alexander." He thinks Hamilton would breathe a moan of agreement, if he could manage the air to do it. As it is, Hamilton is filled too completely—Washington is too sizable—and there is nothing Hamilton can do besides _wait_.

And oh, Washington makes him wait. He keeps his boy exactly where he is as moments tick by, endless seconds stretching into taut minutes. Hamilton begins to tremble beneath his hands, and still Washington keeps him. Dark eyes slip shut, a gagging swallow sending pleasure along Washington's hot flesh. But he does not ease Hamilton back a single inch.

It happens as gradually as always, Hamilton's slow shattering of control as the need for air overrides his ferocious obedience. The struggles increase until Washington is having to hold him in place—pressing him between strong thighs. Exerting vicious strength to prevent any retreat. He curls his free hand at the base of Hamilton's skull when the struggles grow too intense.

Hamilton is choking violently now. Wet, tormented sounds that warm Washington's blood and make it difficult to exercise restraint.

It's only at the first barely perceptible softening of Hamilton's grip atop his thighs that Washington drags him away by the hair. Hamilton's lungs heave at the respite, his chest rising and falling frantically.

Washington allows a few seconds only before putting him back where he belongs.

It's not enough time. He has made sure of it—has caught the boy deliberately flat-footed. Hamilton is unprepared for the sudden force of the cock ramming down his throat, cutting off all air once more. Choking him this time, earning a jerking gag as Alexander struggles to adjust.

 _Now_ there are true tears in Hamilton's eyes. In the next instant wet tracks slick down his cheeks, and _oh_ , how the sight makes Washington _burn_.

"So good for me," he says even as Hamilton fights to settle down and _take_ what his general is giving him. "My little lion. My Alexander."

Hamilton's eyes flutter involuntarily closed at the praise. He is gorgeous to behold.

And he is Washington's alone to touch and claim.

Washington doesn't know what causes the sudden and instant change: between one heartbeat and the next Hamilton's eyes fly open, and an immediate and unfamiliar stiffness overtakes him.

When one hand rises from Washington's thigh and taps twice—deliberate and quick—and Washington lets go as though scalded.

Hamilton draws back with such panicked speed that Washington's heart ices with fear. Did he go too far? He can't imagine how. They've done this dozens of times. He knows Alexander's limits more intimately than his own.

But Hamilton has never used one of their signals before. He has never commanded Washington to _stop_.

All this snaps through Washington's mind in a wild, guilty instant.

"What—" he begins to ask.

"Shh," Hamilton admonishes, already tucking Washington's still hard cock away. It is surreal to see him work so efficiently—to hear him speak so calmly—when his face is a tearful, debauched wreck and his voice is exhausted gravel. "Someone is coming."

" _Oh_." Washington gasps with an unsettled mingling of relief and concern. He did not hear anyone enter their headquarters, too wrapped up in his boy.

But Hamilton _did_ hear. Quick and attentive even in the heat of passion, capable of turning his incredible mind so many directions at once. Washington can abruptly breathe again. He has not harmed Alexander. He hasn't taken anything too far.

"Are you all right?" he asks softly anyway.

"Of course I'm all right." Hamilton gives Washington a wry look and rises to his feet. There is so much grace in even this simple, hurried maneuver, and for a moment Washington forgets _why_ Hamilton is moving, enthralled as always by the sight of him.

Then Hamilton crosses the room, silent and quick. He unlocks the door on his way past, and reaches the corner just in time for the heavy thump of a fist knocking against wood. Washington draws a measured breath, willing his pulse to slow and his lungs to calm. He repositions his chair so that he is properly sitting at his desk. More importantly, he edges forward to conceal the rumpled front of his uniform, making sure no proof of their activities will be visible.

He exchanges one last glance with Hamilton and is not entirely pleased by the grin of amusement on his boy's face. Despite the fact that Hamilton is fully dressed, there's no mistaking exactly what he has been up to. Hiding is the _only_ option. If he's seen looking like this in Washington's company, there will be no more concealing their affair.

"Come in," Washington calls.

The door opens, effectively hiding Hamilton in his corner.

"Sir." It's Tench who appears in the doorframe, a thick bundle of foolscap in hand. He pauses on entering the room, glancing around in apparent confusion.

"Is something wrong?" Washington's brusque impatience is not at all feigned. His arousal has gradually flagged since the first moment of interruption, but he still feels neither forgiving nor at ease.

"No. Not at all. It's just…" Increasing bafflement distorts Tench's expression. "Where is Hamilton?"

Even though there's no way Tench intends the question as an accusation—no chance he knows what the general and his right hand man truly are to each other—the question lands like sleet along Washington's skin. He has to remind himself that it's a reasonable query. At this hour, if Washington is still at work, Hamilton is at work alongside him; even before they began their mutual misconduct this was true. Hamilton has always refused to sleep before his general.

Still the question discomfits him, and it's with difficulty that Washington keeps his voice bland. "I've relieved him for the night. Even Hamilton occasionally needs time for personal matters. What do you have for me?" He resists the urge to point out that the hour is late: of course the hour is late, and Tench would not be here if he didn't have something serious to report.

Tench's spine straightens. "Urgent dispatches, sir. For your eyes only." As he approaches the desk, Washington sees that the stack of paper has been tightly bound with twine, a wax seal affixed to prevent tampering.

"Thank you." Washington accepts the handoff. "Dismissed. Get some sleep, Colonel."

"Sir." Tench nods stiffly and retreats, tugging the hall door shut behind him.

Hamilton is still smiling as he emerges from hiding. Still beautiful, still distracting, still shameless in all his debauched and disheveled glory.

"You were awfully short with him, sir."

"Was I." The words are not a question.

"I won't be surprised when he asks me tomorrow, very first thing, if you're angry with him."

"I _am_ angry with him." Washington holds the bundled papers in one hand and breaks the wax seal. "I was having a very good time before his interruption."

"Yes." Hamilton's voice is teasing as he draws nearer. "I had you right on the edge, your Excellency."

Washington scowls down at the reports as he shuffles through them, barely aware of the front door to headquarters slamming shut downstairs. The papers contain new intelligence. Vital information. They will have to be dealt with before morning—before the rest of the urgent correspondence Washington already intended to manage tonight.

He startles when Hamilton reaches his side and sets a hand atop the papers, pushing them down onto the desk. Gently but effectively knocking them from his grip.

"Those will keep," Hamilton says. In anyone else that tone might be called seductive. In Hamilton it is too blunt and energetic, but it shoots a knife's edge of desire through Washington just the same.

He stares up at Hamilton as though the boy has lost his mind. But Hamilton just stands pointedly beside the chair, peering down into Washington's face with stubborn purpose.

"You cannot be suggesting we continue." Washington gawps in bald disbelief.

"And why not? I've re-locked the door. Surely there won't be two urgent dispatches in a single night." Hamilton grins and hikes himself onto the edge of Washington's desk. The table is more than sturdy enough to take his weight, and the wood behind him is empty—a space kept tidy mostly in deference to the frequency with which Washington bends Hamilton over the smooth surface. "I have no intention of leaving you so cruelly unsatisfied. We can resume the work later. _After_ you've had me thoroughly."

"We were nearly discovered," Washington protests, though his cock is already hardening. "Tench—"

"Saw nothing." Hamilton scoots back, sitting more securely atop the desk, and lets his knees spread wide. The movement creates an inviting space between his thighs, despite the fact that Washington remains stubbornly in his chair.

There is a prominent cock-stand straining beneath the tight fabric of Hamilton's breeches. Washington wonders if he flagged even briefly during their near discovery.

Likely not, he decides. His Alexander is nothing if not adventurous.

"He doesn't even know I'm with you right now," Hamilton continues smoothly. "I'm off on personal business tonight."

"You are incorrigible."

"Maybe. I suppose if you _don't_ want me, I can remove myself to your bed and see to my own needs."

"You would not _dare_." Washington shoves his chair back and rises in a furious rush, riled even though he knows Hamilton is bluffing. His boy would never do such a thing. He's merely trying to get his way by worming beneath Washington's skin.

It is working.

"I might," Hamilton retorts smugly. "I'm not renowned for my self control. Unless you intend to _stop_ me—"

Washington closes on him with desperate hands, taking hold as he slots his body between Hamilton's spread legs. His touch is not gentle—neither is the possessive sound he breathes—but he burns with the need to take and use and own.

It is delightfully easy to force Hamilton down, flattening him onto his back atop the desk. Hamilton fights him, but the resistance is useless.

He looks infuriatingly pleased with himself when Washington manages to pin both his wrists.

"My _God_ , when did you become so disobedient?" Washington growls from his place above Hamilton, his hips rutting forward between warm thighs. Their clothed cocks nudge together, intimate friction, and the two men exhale in mutual pleasure.

"I don't know, sir." Hamilton squirms beneath his hands, arching and rubbing against him. He sounds breathless and needy, and not at all like the teasing coquette of a moment before. "I don't know what came over me. Please don't be angry. Please don't hurt me."

And oh. Oh, _that_ is what Hamilton wants tonight. Rather than hampering his arousal, the interruption has tipped him into a different flavor of wanting. Washington was already inclined toward making rough use of him, but Hamilton's plea is asking for _more_.

Washington shouldn't give his boy _more_ tonight. It's already late, and they have a great deal of work yet to do—more still, now that these new dispatches have come to his hand. If he indulges his boy this way, they will both be exhausted come morning.

Washington finds he does not care. Not in this moment, with adrenaline running high and his cock painfully hard beneath his uniform. Not when Hamilton amply deserves a reward of his choosing.

"Yes, _there's_ an idea," he murmurs, leaning down to press the words into Hamilton's soft and vulnerable throat. "Perhaps you deserve to be punished. Not just for your disobedience, but for your carelessness."

"But, sir—" Hamilton's protest stutters to nothing when Washington's teeth close _hard_ over his pulse point.

He does not need Hamilton to defend his behavior. That's the point. He does not truly consider _Hamilton_ careless. If anyone is to blame for their near discovery it's Washington himself. They would have been in a difficult situation at best if Hamilton had not retained enough presence of mind to notice footsteps on the stair.

" _No_ ," Washington hisses as he releases the newly marked skin. "I don't require an explanation for your misconduct. I require penance. You will suffer for me, Alexander. You will accept the hurts I give you. And perhaps if you are very, _very_ good, I will forgive you."

"Oh, God," Hamilton groans, and the last vestiges of fight go out of him with a shiver.

Even though he's eager himself for what he is about to do, Washington rises only with reluctance. He does not want to take his hands off Hamilton for even this brief interval, but he must in order to deliver what Hamilton craves.

He could step back and order Hamilton into position. But he won't. He knows just how much his boy prefers to be grabbed and shoved and forced to comply. How he delights in being manhandled into place. It's an illusion both of them enjoy: that Hamilton is utterly helpless in Washington's hands; that he cannot refuse when he's no match for such overwhelming physical strength; that he has _no choice_ but to take whatever cruelties his general inflicts upon him.

An elaborate and satisfying fiction, and one which Washington is happy to indulge.

So he uses brute strength instead. He is needlessly rough as he drags Hamilton bodily down from the desk and turns him around, bending him forward—shoving him into place so forcefully that Hamilton grunts aloud when his chest hits the desk.

When Hamilton turns his head, resting his cheek on the smooth wood and peering over his shoulder, there's a fierce blush reddening his skin. His hair is a mess, and he catches his lower lip between his teeth. He looks like absolute heaven.

For a moment Washington simply stands there, pressed close along the boy's backside. Tormenting himself with holding his arousal tight against Hamilton despite the layers of fabric obstructing his pleasure. He wills the urgency to subside—he has no intention of spending before he's brought Alexander to orgasm—and with difficulty retreats from the knife's edge of his own release. He breathes out and in, pinning Hamilton's wrists at the small of his back and holding him still.

Washington's cock is still stiff with need, but from here he can trust his own iron control.

With one hand he holds both of Hamilton's wrists, even as he drags at laces and fabric with the other. It is a challenge disrobing Hamilton this way, but worth it for the way his boy pants and thrashes atop the desk. Struggling to get away, desperate to be held exactly where he is.

Alexander Hamilton is a whirlwind of contradictions, and Washington knows he will never tire of them.

Finally he succeeds in his battle against stubborn garments. He drags Hamilton's breeches down his hips and thighs, yanks the loose fabric of his shirt aside, baring the perfectly shaped curve of his ass. Washington cannot resist touching—first a caress that's almost gentle over one rounded cheek—then a single loud strike with his open palm. Hamilton breathes a choked cry at the impact, and wriggles more frantically beneath the grip holding him down.

Washington smiles, soft and indulgent, and gifts him with a second blow to the same spot, this one harder than the first.

He could continue like this. He is more than capable of making Hamilton hurt with only his bare hands. But something tells him even _this_ will not be enough tonight.

"Can you keep quiet for more?" he asks, breaking the illusion of cruel force.

He can _see_ Hamilton struggling with the question. Wanting to be restrained—desperate to be held down—but they must also be practical. They've already evaded one close call tonight. If Hamilton can't vow to keep his voice down through what's coming, then Washington _must_ gag him.

And he will not forcibly silence his boy without leaving his hands free. Not when he is about to inflict pain. They have any number of signals. Half a dozen contingencies that allow Hamilton to _fight_ the way he craves. But none of them work if Hamilton is _both_ silenced and restrained.

He knows he would face no protest. More than once Hamilton has tried to convince him such contingencies are unnecessary—that he trusts Washington completely—that there is nothing his general might do to him that Hamilton would _not_ welcome.

But Washington has not been swayed by such arguments, and Hamilton no longer makes them. This balance between them is too dangerous. It's not a game. Washington may revel in physically hurting Alexander; but he will never forgive himself if he truly harms the boy.

It's this discord with which Hamilton is obviously struggling: his desire to be held down conflicting with the knowledge that silence is beyond him. If it were just a question of risk, Washington strongly suspects Hamilton would take the chance. Alexander has never possessed an excess of discretion or common sense.

Thankfully there is one other vital element at play: Hamilton will never lie to his general.

Only a moment passes before Hamilton admits, "No. You will have to gag me."

Washington hums an approving sound, and rewards the honesty with another vicious, open-handed blow. Hamilton whimpers and jerks his wrists in Washington's hold. Washington takes a moment to admire the redness spreading across vulnerable skin. Strokes his hand over the spot just to hear Hamilton moan.

It's not Hamilton's cravat that Washington collects in order to gag him, but a scrap of clean cloth—smaller than a neckcloth or handkerchief. Useful for this purpose alone. Washington realized early in their affair that he could not continue ruining cravats—his own _or_ Hamilton's—every time he needed to muffle Hamilton's incautious cries. There's a certain spontaneity to most of their encounters, but he has learned to be better prepared.

"Open your mouth," he orders sternly. Hamilton instantly obeys, and Washington forces the wad of fabric past parted lips. He releases Hamilton's wrists as he secures the makeshift gag, and Hamilton immediately clasps his hands together at the small of his back. Holding position with charming determination.

For just a moment Washington allows unguarded affection to warm his chest and soften his expression. He cards his fingers through the soft mess of Hamilton's hair, earning a startled shiver.

"You can hold onto the desk if you need to," he murmurs, even though the gentleness will ruin the harsh edge of their playacting. "I don't require perfect stillness tonight." He will, in fact, very much enjoy seeing Hamilton squirm.

Hamilton breathes a muffled grunt of protest when Washington's hands leave him, and Washington spares an instant to be amused at what a needy, mercurial creature his boy is. He can't give Hamilton what he wants _without_ first stepping away. And yet there is the plaintive note, the muffled protest. Ridiculous, and far more endearing than it has any right to be.

Washington's sword stands propped in the corner beside his desk, his belt looped through it. He unthreads the belt and returns to the desk with the length of leather smooth in his hands.

The belt is old and worn soft with the years. Comfortable. Familiar. He has newer belts, crisp leather with stiff edges. He's even used them on Alexander a time or two—there are days his boy requires a more vicious hand, and when circumstances permit Washington has learned to indulge him—but tonight he does not need the extra bite of new leather. He is intimately acquainted with his boy's moods, with his needs, with the subtle nuances of Alexander's desire to be hurt. Tonight Washington will use the well-worn belt in his hand, and he will reduce his boy to tears just as surely as any sharper pain could achieve.

He doesn't tell Alexander how many lashes to expect. The truth is, he has not yet decided. The moment will carry him forward; his boy's body and muffled voice will tell him what Hamilton needs tonight. All Washington has to do is listen.

The metal buckle is cool as he tucks it into his palm, looping the belt around his hand a couple of times to create the length he wants. A visible tremble travels Hamilton's body as Washington closes his fist around soft leather with an audible creak. Washington's blood warms pleasantly at the sight. _Oh_ , yes. He is going to enjoy this almost as much as Alexander.

The first lash is sudden, but not at all hard—a blow that earns a whimper more by dint of surprise than being particularly painful. Hamilton inhales harshly at the blow, but his hands do not move from where he clutches them at his back.

"Good," Washington murmurs, then brings a second, harder strike down across the exact same spot.

He takes his time. Pauses between lashes just long enough for the tension to ease from Hamilton's body. When he senses that Hamilton is beginning to anticipate his timing, he delivers three blows in quick succession. They land hard, and the force of impact—the surprise of so much at once—earns a sharp cry that would _certainly_ damn them if not for the gag muffling Hamilton's voice.

With every strike Hamilton's ass reddens more beautifully. The leather is soft enough not to break skin, but the welts striping smooth flesh are a wonder to behold. They are delightful. And Washington thinks, not for the first time, that his boy is a true work of art. A singular creature, to allow Washington this—to _plead_ for this—always so desperate for both pleasure and pain at his general's hand.

Washington will enjoy admiring the bruises tomorrow. Hamilton will have trouble sitting at his work. He will be uncomfortable on the hard wooden chair, but unable to request a cushion without arousing suspicion.

Perhaps Washington will make a point of visiting the workroom. Some excuse to check up on his aides. He wants to see Hamilton's face struggling to remain placid in the face of such discomfort.

He swings the belt with more of his strength now, speeding his pace and letting the blows fall lower. Striping the backs of Hamilton's thighs with the same attentive care as his ass. The sounds Hamilton is making—the gasps and whimpers, the grateful moans, the muffled cries of surprise and pain—they would be enough to ignite desire in the coldest stone.

Washington is no stone. He is a perpetual bonfire of _wanting_ for this impossible young man, and he was painfully aroused long before he took his belt in hand. He is desperate to free his straining cock, to set aside the belt and _have_ Hamilton, here and now.

But he will not rush this. He will not sate his own selfish urges until he's given his boy what he needs.

Hamilton has still not unclasped his hands, and Washington is impressed. He can _see_ the frenzy of feeling, the line of Hamilton's cock where it hangs flushed and thick between trembling thighs. Alexander's legs are spread as wide as they can go while hampered by his breeches—giving Washington as much access as possible. Barely shying from the cruelest lashes of the belt.

Alexander is not tensing for the blows anymore, and after a moment there's a change of tone in the muffled noises of pleasure. Hamilton's whimpers are softer now, his moans slow and long and smooth.

Washington knows what this means.

Hamilton has described it before, quiet and confessional in his arms—in his bed—calming after being roughly and thoroughly used. The rush of pure sensation, like he doesn't quite inhabit his own body anymore. Like his tormentor has raised him to some completely different plane of existence. Transcendent. There is, according to Hamilton, nothing like it in the world.

Now that they're here, Washington eases gradually back. He continues to lash the belt across oversensitive flesh, but he measures his strength now. Settles into a steadier rhythm of softer blows, letting Hamilton enjoy the sensations as Washington begins to ease him down.

He slows the pace by degrees. When Hamilton falls quiet but for the shuddering sound of his breathing, Washington sets aside the belt and delivers a series of open-handed slaps to the boy's reddened ass. More teasing than painful, though even this must hurt like hell after everything Hamilton's skin has already suffered.

Even so, Hamilton presses back into every touch. The skin is feverish when Washington strokes a gentler hand across his work. Yes, these bruises will truly be something to behold.

"Look at you," Washington murmurs, even though he doubts Hamilton will hear him like this. "Look how perfect you are. My Alexander." He reaches forward to brush reverent fingers through Hamilton's hair, tucking the dark strands aside. Hamilton's face is slick with tears. The wetness glints in the candlelight and makes Washington's blood sing. Suddenly his own aching, impatient prick seems a much more urgent matter.

He shrugs quickly out of his coat, letting the heavy garment fall to the floor, forgotten instantly as he turns his focus to his breeches. He groans aloud at the pure physical relief as he takes his cock out. Hamilton fidgets atop the desk, restless now that he is not being touched.

Washington bends over him, making a point to brush his body against inflamed flesh just to see Hamilton squirm more violently. He presses a soft kiss to his boy's rapid pulse and tugs the makeshift gag from his mouth.

" _Thank you_ , sir," Hamilton says in a lost, longing tone. His voice sounds rough as dry gravel. Only now do his hands unclasp, and Washington feels them move where they're loosely trapped beneath his weight.

"You did well, Alexander." He nips at the same place he just kissed, not quite hard enough to bruise.

Hamilton whimpers with unguarded pleasure. "Please, sir, can I come?"

"Soon," Washington promises, rolling his hips forward to make his boy vividly aware of the hard cock about to impale him. "Once I've had my satisfaction of you. _Then_ you may find your own release." He won't punish the boy if he spends while Washington is fucking him—Alexander has already been so good for him tonight—but he is genuinely curious. Hamilton has learned excellent restraint in the months since they began this affair. Washington wants to see if, after everything he has already felt tonight, Hamilton can hold himself back a little longer still.

Washington doesn't hesitate now that he's here. He spits in his hand and slicks his cock. It won't be enough, but he can't bear to leave this room long enough to collect the oil from across the hall. In any case, it's not as though Hamilton will protest.

Alexander is tight when Washington lines up his cock and fucks in. The boy's moan sends a shiver the length of Washington's spine, and he forces his way deeper. Even with Hamilton relaxing around him Washington has to move slowly, penetrating farther by maddening degrees.

Hamilton breathes a shocky gasp when Washington's hips stutter forward, and he fumbles a hand back toward his general. Finds Washington's hip and grips tightly despite the awkward angle. Urging him on.

" _More_ ," Hamilton gasps. "Oh fuck, give me more. All of it— I want— God, yes, just like that, _fuck me_."

With a final, brutal snap of his hips, Washington sinks into his boy all the way. He drops his weight forward along Hamilton's back, breathing a low moan at the helpless flutter of muscle around his cock. No pleasure in the world can compete with Hamilton's perfect mouth, but Washington will never tire of this, either. The heat of Hamilton's body taking him in, the shuddering gasps and grunts of pleasure, the way Alexander falls utterly still beneath him for just a moment.

A flawless and far too brief eternity.

Washington is breathing harder now, panting against Hamilton's throat. After a moment Hamilton turns his head, bringing their faces almost close enough to kiss, lust-hazed eyes meeting his general's ravenous gaze.

For several seconds they are motionless. There is intimacy in this stillness—not just their bodies locked in carnal congress—but something more. Something bright and sharp and terrifying that ignites like cannon fire in Washington's chest. He sees a matching glint in Hamilton's eyes, and he knows his boy feels this too.

"Are you all right?" Washington's voice shakes, but he's not self-conscious about it. He has no need for pride or pretense in front of Alexander.

"Yes," Hamilton gasps, but there are new tears in his eyes. 

Washington understands completely; he is terrified, too.

Without withdrawing from Hamilton's body, Washington moves above him. Smooth and effortless, he captures Hamilton's wrists—one in each hand—and twists them into place on top of the desk, pins them with bruising strength to either side of Hamilton's head. Hamilton shivers beneath him, rubbing back against Washington's chest with a groan.

Washington wishes they were naked, but there's no helping it now. It is a problem he cannot remedy for hours yet.

"I've got you, Alexander." He presses the words to Hamilton's jaw like a kiss and watches those honest eyes flutter closed.

He ruts his hips forward even though he can't fill the boy any more completely. The movement crushes Hamilton harder against the desk, jostles Washington's cock so deep inside him, earns a fractured, high-pitched gasp of surprise and pleasure.

" _Sir_ ," Hamilton says, and it is almost a sob.

" _Yes_ ," Washington breathes. "I'm here. I have you. I am not letting you go."

"Oh, God." Hamilton trembles beneath him, tries to roll his hips back despite the pinning weight and the cock inside him. "Sir, please—"

"Yes," Washington repeats, ducks his head to bite hard at the side of Hamilton's neck. He doesn't release his hold on either wrist as he draws his hips back and then thrusts forward, hard and harsh and sudden.

Hamilton _keens_ at being filled so viciously—there is no other word to describe the wild and helpless sound—even as he clamps his mouth shut to contain it. And _oh_ , that sound sends waves of pleasure through Washington. He tightens his already bruising hold on both wrists, and repeats the maneuver. Jolting his boy brutally against the desk.

He wonders what Alexander is feeling. Marvels at this tolerance for pain—at the blatant and insatiable craving to be taken apart—at the enthusiastic delight his boy takes in every hurt Washington deigns to inflict. He can imagine vividly enough what it must feel like, the chafe of skin and fabric against abraded flesh every time Washington ruts forward. Hamilton is an inferno up close, and his bruised and welted ass burns hottest of all.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Hamilton sobs, voice shaking in time with Washington's increasingly frantic thrusts. "Fuck, I _can't_ , sir—"

Washington knows exactly what warning his boy is trying to give—he would recognize the physical tells even without the frantic rush of words—and he does not care. He rams his cock home as his own orgasm crests and overtakes him, crashing over his head and igniting beneath his skin. Carrying him high on a wave of sensation so bright he has to dig his teeth into Hamilton's shoulder to muffle his own shattered cry.

For a time he is unaware of the world. His body feels heavy, his senses buzzing distractedly. Warmth suffuses his chest, his limbs, his blood.

He is still inside Alexander when his mind resumes awareness. His cock is over-sensitized, but he makes no move to withdraw. He is enjoying the way Hamilton has gone boneless, the way his tight body cradles Washington's softening length, the way he is still panting fast and shallow and sharp.

The way he shivers but makes no effort to twist free of the hands still pinning both wrists to the desk.

"Did you spend yourself, Alexander?" Washington murmurs the question into the nape of his neck.

"I'm sorry," Hamilton chokes, and even now Washington can hear hot tears in his boy's voice. "I'm sorry, sir, I tried—"

"Do you think I'm disappointed?" Washington asks, keeping the tone light—idle—despite the physical intimacy they are still sharing.

"I disobeyed you," Hamilton whimpers. "I tried— I couldn't—"

"I know." Washington presses a soft kiss to Hamilton's shoulder, just beneath the red imprint from his teeth—another place Hamilton will be wearing a beautiful bruise tomorrow. Hamilton sobs, overwhelmed. Washington presses another kiss directly to the darkening mark. "Shh. I know. It's all right, my boy. I forgive you."

"S—Sir?" Hamilton's voice is barely audible. "You—"

"I am not disappointed. You did well for me tonight."

A moment of stillness, of silence, and then Hamilton sighs. A long, slow sound. Relief. Satisfaction. Contentment.

Only now does Washington push up from the desk. He lets go his grip and withdraws from Hamilton's exhausted body. The movement earns a grunt of discomfort, even though Washington is trying to be gentle. His boy will be in a wide variety of pain tomorrow; Washington has used him well.

Another moment of stillness gathers and settles, as Washington traces reverent fingers over the welt-reddened skin of Hamilton's thighs and backside. He takes his time, admiring the sight. Enjoying the way every touch makes fever-hot flesh tremble. Hamilton moans when Washington drags his thumbnail over an especially pronounced weal that crosses high along both cheeks.

He has not broken the skin.

Hamilton won't complain, but he will almost surely be on the lookout for opportunities to wind his general tighter in the coming weeks. Alexander takes far too much pleasure in riling him to the breaking point, just to see what Washington's fits of temper will unleash. Unwise. But then, no one has ever accused Alexander Hamilton of excessive wisdom. If it falls to Washington to exercise restraint for both of them, he will manage. He has done it so far—mostly—and he will continue without complaint.

He has never once inflicted hurts beyond Hamilton's endless desire for them. With every encounter he is learning to trust his own judgment, to read his boy. He knows what Hamilton can take. What he craves. And while he has no desire to do the boy true harm, he finds himself increasingly comfortable inhabiting these realms.

What a strange place Alexander has brought him; and yet Washington can't bring himself to regret that they are here.

"You're beautiful like this, my boy." He says the words as much to feel the answering shiver as because it is true. "When this war is over, I will take you away somewhere. I will get you truly alone, and I will worship you the way you deserve."

Hamilton twists against the desk, wedging his elbows beneath him and pushing upright just enough to peer at Washington over his shoulder. Hamilton's eyes are red and cried out, his tears drying. His mouth hangs ajar in an expression of disbelieving hope.

"Is that a promise, sir?"

"Yes." Washington would not have said such a thing if he didn't mean it with the sincerity of a sacred vow. "I told you I intend to keep you."

Then, even though it is torment to stop touching Hamilton for even a moment, Washington takes a step back. Tucks his spent cock away, then retreats another step to reach his chair. He sits heavily, not once taking his eyes off the gorgeous young man spread over his desk.

"Come here," he says, but the command is gentle.

Hamilton rises with difficulty, and Washington can't tell if it's because he's exhausted or if the pain is hampering his movements. He will ask before he takes the boy to bed. If he's still in too much fresh agony to move, Washington will happily carry him.

When Hamilton stands before him, Washington takes the liberty of putting his clothing to rights. Much as he would prefer to strip him down entirely—or better still, _order_ him to strip, so that Washington might watch pained movements slowly baring every inch of beautiful skin—he can't. There is too much work to do. The reality of his duties—and Hamilton's as his overworked chief of staff—do not abate simply because he's done his best to ruin his boy for the night. After he has seen to Hamilton's softer needs, they must both return to the tasks at hand.

Then, lest Hamilton think the time has _already_ come to return to work, Washington grabs him by the hips and drags him roughly down. Hamilton lands astride his lap, legs spreading wide and face going tight with a flash of pain. The gasp is barely audible past reddened lips, but Washington stares at that maddening mouth for several seconds.

He is not expecting to be kissed, but he greedily accepts and reciprocates when Alexander's mouth finds his. Washington twines his arms about the narrow waist and tucks his boy closer. There's something restless in the soft slide of tongue along his own, the tentative way Hamilton licks and teases and explores. It is unusual for _Hamilton_ to guide their kisses.

Washington enjoys the sweetness of it. His boy displaying uncharacteristic gentleness, in this communion that transcends words.

It lasts a long time. Washington is in no hurry, though the rational general at the back of his mind knows he should be. He allows Alexander to take as long as he likes, and his heart thrills at how tightly the boy clings to him.

Renewed ferocity glints in Hamilton's eyes when he eases back with a quiet sigh. "You're really not disappointed in me?"

"Not one bit." Washington leans up to press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. "You were perfect. I asked the impossible. I wanted to see how close you would come."

"It was not close enough," Hamilton protests.

"Oh, Alexander." Washington barely quashes a burst of laughter at the petulant look on that beautiful face. "My stubborn, prideful heart. Only you would find fault in your behavior tonight."

"But, sir—"

"You were good for me," Washington cuts him off sternly. "You were perfect."

"I am never perfect," Hamilton mutters. "I try and try, and it is never enough."

"It is enough for me." Washington tugs Hamilton down into another kiss, shorter but no less earnest than the last. "You will _always_ be enough for me."

Hamilton blinks, wide and startled, and there are tears in his eyes despite the dumbfounded expression on his face. Washington waits without flinching. He needs Hamilton to see the truth of his words. He cannot bear for his boy to harbor any doubts about his place in Washington's heart.

He doesn't ask for reassurance that Hamilton feels the same. He does not need to. His Alexander is too sincere to leave any doubt at all.

A moment passes between them that way, silent and staring. Then Hamilton curls forward, tucking himself tight against Washington's broad chest. Twining his arms around his general's waist as he nudges his face beneath Washington's jaw.

"Promise me." Hamilton's breath is hot on his throat, though his voice has fallen small and soft. "Promise you'll never leave me behind. I can't bear to lose you, sir."

"Never willingly." Washington wraps his arms tighter around his boy, crushing Hamilton to him with equal vigor. "Never while there is breath in my body."

"You cannot die," Hamilton snarls, clinging all the harder.

Washington breathes a soft huff, too heavy to be a laugh, too bright to be a sigh. "I am only a man, Alexander. This war is far from over. And..." Here he pauses. Draws a steadying breath. "I am more than twice your age." It is a fact he does not often allow himself to consider. The knowledge sits barbed and sharp beneath his skin, half guilty sense of wrongdoing, half painful knowledge that he _will_ inevitably leave his boy behind, no matter what paths their future holds.

"You're a powerful man," Hamilton says. "You will survive this war, and many years after."

Washington resists the urge to ask if Hamilton will be at his side through all those years. He cannot ask such a thing of someone so young. Hamilton's whole life is before him. This war has already made him important; he will do great things if they win. If a day comes when he no longer wants Washington in his life, then Washington will stand aside. He will ask no promises in the meantime, no matter how certain he is of Alexander's adoration.

He will only hope. That will be enough.

"You must live also, Alexander. You _will_ survive this war. Consider it a direct order."

Hamilton gasps a sound that is not quite a laugh. When he straightens, there is steel in those dark, brilliant eyes.

"I love you, sir," Hamilton says. Blunt. Raw. Honest.

 _Real_.

And even though he has heard Alexander say those words before, Washington forgets how to breathe.


End file.
